Stepping Through
by tartan robes
Summary: "You just need to go slowly." A short Carson/Hughes interaction, set a bit farther in the future.


"Oh and here you are again, come to prove to everyone that I'm mad," Elsie Hughes locks the door behind him.

Charles Carson sits down at the small table. It's changed since his last visit. The doll, the same doll that was there all those years ago, smelling of ash and excitement, is back; he chooses to ignore it, for now at least. He's more relieved when he sees the pair cufflinks and the empty teacup next to it.

"Won't you sit down, Mrs –"

"No."

He motions towards the chair and she turns her back to him. Her fingers fuss with the objects at her desk. Arranging and rearranging them. She shuffles the papers, pretends to be busy.

"You can't keep popping in like this," she finally says. All he can see is the back of her dress (a new one too, but black, black, black like the one before it), but the strain in her voice is clear. Her fingers press just under her eyes; he hears her breathe in sharply. "I can't plan around these visits, Mr. Carson, I can't –"

"You just need to go slowly."

She laughs, bitter and cold. "Oh yes, I need to go slow. Do you remember when I told you that?" Charles Carson looks down into his palms. "And not a word did you listen. No, you never listened, Mr. Carson, you never did."

"You're getting older, Mrs. Hughes –"

"– I'd forgotten how _charming_ you can be –"

"– And you do need to just ease up a bit –"

"And why should I listen to you?" Elsie Hughes has spun on her heels. Her keys swing, crash lightly against her hip. There's not much light in the room; everything looks more grey and blue than it ought to, the shadows are all wrong, too large, and her face looks too pale. It worries him. The faintness of her skin and the red around her eyes and the way her lip is trembling, fighting to stay pursed and even. She bites down on it.

"Because I was the one who had the heart attack," He tries to joke, but she doesn't laugh. Her hand squeezes her wrist, chokes it like a snake might its prey.

"It wasn't a heart attack." She looks at the door – and maybe through it – instead of at him. Her voice has gone soft and shaky. In spite of it, he tries to smile.

"Might as well have been."

They say nothing for a very long time.

She comes to him finally, sits on the other side of the table. Out of the corner of her eye, he watches her hands. They tap at first, beat without ever striking the wood, without making a single sound. One tremours along the side of her face, adjusts a lose strand of grey. She bites her lip again, blinks. Grey and blue. Everything is grey and blue in this room and she is no exception.

"I can manage the store cupboard," she says after another pause. He notes the way her heels don't touch the ground, the way she rocks back and forth, like a child – or a lioness on edge. He's not sure which. He's not sure which would be better.

"I know you can."

"I've managed it for decades, Mr. Carson. I know how to do it."

"I know."

"I can still run a house, Mr. Carson."

He says nothing. His hand reaches for hers, but he thinks better of it, pulls away before she sees. Instead, he follows her fingers across the table. He shouldn't, but he smiles when her hands pass over the doll, favouring the cufflinks instead. She takes them into her hands and squeezes them tightly. (And the air around him seems to tighten. Perhaps holding him there stronger or consuming him entirely – he doesn't know.)

Her lip trembles and she presses the small pieces of glass to it. His breath catches; he notes all the new lines in her face. A new sense of fragility, something he's never seen in her before. It scares him – just a bit.

"You have to go slow," he urges again, his whisper more forceful than before. She doesn't look at him.

"And will you follow me down the halls, ensure that I do?" Her words bite, but for a moment he thinks she may be serious. Maybe she is.

"You wouldn't be mad then?" It's another joke. He seems to have an excess of them now.

He sees her smile, however briefly.

But then it disappears. She trades it for an expression as black as her dress. Her mouth opens, then shuts. She reconsiders. She bites her lip and then, thinking it over once more, says, very softly, in a voice barely there at all, "Is it nice there? Do you like it?"

"Well, I'm not there much, now am I?"

"But haven't you –"

"No, I couldn't quite bring myself to."

"I think you should," and the strength is back. The decisiveness, the confidence. Suddenly, the air isn't stale, the light isn't blue. It's bright and it's open and he remembers them, side by side at a garden party. Her in a different sort of black, one that wasn't as heavy; her hair brown instead of grey – her eyes are still the same though. They anchor him here; they always have.

"Now?"

"Yes, I think, I – won't it be better there, Mr. Carson?"

"For you or for me?"

"For you. You know I only think of you. I –"

"I know."

She squeezes the cufflinks again, "But you've never even tried?"

"Well, you know what I said. Haunt these halls forevermore."

"Don't you wonder?"

"I'm too busy looking out for you," he forces a smile and tries to give one back.

"I don't need that," she mutters, "your Lady Mary needs it more than I do."

"I watch her too."

"They named the heir after you, you know? The middle name of course, wouldn't be proper any other way, would it?"

"I know."

"Lovely boy."

"I know."

She puts the cufflinks back down on the table.

"You don't belong here anymore, Mr. Carson." She stands and turns to him, extends her hand. From his seat, he tries to take it. His heart stops (or it would, if it could) when his fingers slip through hers. He sees her eyes shine, her lips press tightly together again.

He stands, tries desperately to hold her hands.

They find a comfortable settlement. His palms hovering against hers. He wonders if she feels of anything – or if it's as though he's not even there. Maybe he isn't.

"You'll go slow," he whispers, looking down at her carefully, "won't you?"

He hears her exhale (what he would give to do that again, if only for a moment, if only to take her hand properly). She nods her head, slightly, fleetingly, in the cold light of the room. (Is it cold because he's here or because he isn't?)

"I miss you," she finally mumbles and it takes everything he's got to keep smiling. He wonders if it's the light or if her cheeks would feel damp now. He doesn't know; he can't feel them anymore.

"Mrs. Hughes, I –"

Her hand climbs upward, shaking, pushes against the space where his lips should be. (It's all empty space now. Empty space that's heavier than anything else in the world.)

"Hush, Mr. Carson," she bites on her lip, tries to smile once again, "we'll have a lifetime to say all the things we should have."

She pauses, and then, "I won't be too far behind you."

His fingers begin to fade; her hands grasp at empty air.

"You'll wait for me, won't you?" She says suddenly, the thought just occurring to her or the nerves just setting in. The wildness in her eyes reminds him how alive she still is. He wonders if she'll lose it when she comes for him. He hopes she never does.

"Always."

"Mr. Carson –"

Elsie Hughes looks around the empty room. A wine glass sits, empty, on her desk. She reaches, quickly and desperately, for it, stumbles over to that side of the room. Her hands shake as she pours herself a glass. The liquid spills, runs down onto the ground, but she ignores it, presses the cup against her lips. Cold, so cold. She takes it all in one breath, despite herself. And then she collapses into her chair, hugs shoulders tightly.

The cufflinks gleam on the other table. She presses a trembling hand to her lips. The tips of her fingers become soaked, lightly. She didn't even know she was crying.

"Goodbye, Mr. Carson."

* * *

_This idea is a little silly and I'm not sure how I feel about my execution of it (definitely not too happy with some bits), but the idea kept nagging at me so, there, I wrote it. Also, because she dedicated something completely flawless to me, I'd like to dedicate this thing - whatever it is - to the ever lovely Maple Fay, because she's kind of brilliant and deserves a story at least ten times better than this one is. __  
_


End file.
